It's Better to Ask Forgiveness Than to Beg Permission
by 1337nik
Summary: Sam has a special request. (Pastfic, Teenchesters fluff)


"**It's Better to Ask Forgiveness Than to Beg Permission**"  
By JO Lee / 1337nik (© 2013)

**Continuity**  
Pre – series. (1995)

**Warnings**  
Schmoop and brother feels.

**Disclaimer**  
This is an unauthorised work of fiction featuring characters from the series _Supernatural_. I claim no ownership of the above and I'm making no profit of any kind. (Though I wouldn't mind borrowing them for a few hours.)

**Dedication**  
For CaptainOcie, who keeps me sane. (- ish)

* * *

_Red Bank, NJ_  
_June 1995_

It's nearly six when Sam tiptoes into the motel room. Dean sits at the kitchenette table, carefully stripping and cleaning an M870, his eyes on the clock. He lets out a sigh of what sounds like relief. Sam recognises when his brother's been worrying, and for a moment he feels guilty, before he remembers that he's twelve and he should be able to go to the library in a small town by himself.

"Is he here?" Sam mouths to his brother. His shoulders sag when he notices two pairs of dirty hiking boots by his feet.

Dean closes his eyes and mimes taking a nap. Sam wonders if he can make it to the table, pull out his books and act as if he'd been there the whole time. The brothers have a long standing pact; they don't snitch on each other, as long as it isn't something stupid. John would never even know the difference. Sam takes a breath and gently pushes the door shut. The hinge squeaks, giving him away. So much for that plan.

"I told you to be back by four," their father's voice rumbles over the TV. The couch springs don't groan; at least Sam's not going to get it in the face this time. "It doesn't take two hours to walk here from that school."

"I had study group." It occurs to him that his father had been halfway through a six pack when Sam reported that, and the information may have been lost in the haze.

"What do you need study group for?" Dean snickers. "Aren't you a Mathlete?"

"I was tutoring. Y'know, girls." His brother nods in approval.

Sam sits at an empty corner of the table and goes through his books. The year is really a foregone conclusion at this point, just review and preparation for the next – eighth grade. Old enough that he doesn't constantly need a babysitter, a chaperone. Hell, if he's old enough to pack salt rounds and shoot targets, he's old enough to spend a few hours alone with friends. At least until they leave and he loses what friends he has.

Sam slides a blue sheet from the pocket of his binder and unfolds it. Aside from the neat crease through the middle, it's pristine. Dean looks up, reads the top. Sam's afraid he's going to grab it, but his older brother just gives him an encouraging thumbs up. He steels his nerves and walks over to the sofa.

"Dad?"

John grunts. Sam takes that as his cue to continue.

"At the end of the year, this school takes all the Honor Roll kids to Coney Island, and I got the second highest mark in my class." Sam is proud of that, despite starting over three times since September. He holds out the form for his father to take.

"Second highest?" The senior Winchester reads it over. Sam swallows and nods. He thinks he sees the ghost of a smile on John's lips, a glimmer of pride in his face, but something else too. Sadness? Sam blinks and it's gone, if it was ever there in the first place. "Who beat you?" he adds, gruffly.

"I think she got accepted to Harvard in preschool," Sam jokes to hide his disappointment. John hands the sheet back.

"I don't send you to school to play carnival games."

Sam deflates. His bangs fall into his eyes. John hates when Sam's hair isn't kept at a "reasonable" length – his personal standard, flavored with bias instilled by the Marine Corps – but it's finally back to a decent length after an incident involving Dean and some Nair, and Sam isn't in any rush to cut it again.

"We'll stop at the range on our way out of town, you boys can shoot some skeet. Hell of a lot cheaper."

"Sounds great," Sam says flatly.

"Now that you're finally here, we can go get something to eat. C'mon." John pulls himself off the couch. Dean goes to the bathroom to wash his hands.

"Hey," Sam calls to him. Dean stops and catches a wadded up ball of blue paper.

"Throw that out for me?"

* * *

"Sammy, get up. You're gonna be late." Sam lifts his head from his pillow and looks blearily at the clock.

"I don't need to get up for another hour."

"You'll miss the bus."

"What?" Sam rubs his face, sees the empty bed across from him. "Where's Dad?"

"Uncle Bobby called; there was a job upstate. Dad won't be back till Saturday. He told me to get your ass to school, so get up."

Sam looks puzzled when Dean hands him not his backpack, but a brown paper bag and an envelope with the motel's name and address in the corner. There's a can of Coke and a sandwich from the motel diner for his lunch; in the envelope, a few old $20s and the permission slip, unballed and crinkled, signed "J. Winchester" in Dean's best handwriting.

"Dean . . ."

"Because you're a nerd and you kicked ass. Besides, now you owe me one."

"I know," Sam nods.

"Bring me back some taffy. And I want that mermaid calendar they got at the darts. That's your best game, right?"

"How do you know what they have?"

Dean shrugs. "I blew off school last Friday." He holds up a finger. "Tell Dad and I'll ditch you at that creepy clown place next time I see Hailey."

"You'll just ditch me there anyway." Sam rolls his eyes but swallows against the twinge of fear that runs through his body.

"I was going to sneak you into the new Die Hard with us, but not if you're gonna be a bitch about it."

"You're good." Sam leaves the bag and the envelope on the unmade bed and grabs a fresh change of clothes from his laundry bag. Before he disappears into the bathroom, he gives his brother the biggest smile Dean's seen from him in a long time.

"Thanks, man."


End file.
